


Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

by DaggerStar



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Val has a small crisis over why people seem to call her killer, she doesn't grasp how much she's not a lawyer anymore, some Mac angst too, some blood, some violence, val/maccready but it's not focused on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaggerStar/pseuds/DaggerStar
Summary: Thanks, killer <3





	Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

   Val let Pickman go. To be completely honest, Pickman's art gallery wasn't very high on the Vault Dweller's list of things she had to worry about, what with her son and all. A dark side of Val that (though she'd never admit it) she'd been entertaining amongst recent events found Pickman's paintings… nice. All those raiders finally going to something useful. He had thanked her and gave her a gift hidden behind one of the paintings on the main floor. After leaving, Valentia was able to test out his blade on a feral. It cut flesh like butter, and boy howdy did it make them bleed. The blade was almost surgical. Of course, knives were not and never have been Val's weapon of choice. Even pre-war, back in Reno, her and her brothers would shoot cans with a revolver to see who could get the highest score. There was just something about unsheathing the blade from its new place at her belt and going wild on someone. Perhaps it was a much needed outlet for her anger. Maybe that's why she let Pickman live in the first place? Her own anger at the world excusing him because, hell, at least he's  _ doing _ something.

 

   He had called her  _ killer _ in his note to her, something that a couple people and a robot have called her in this new life. It was a strange feeling, being called this. Val Reyna was a lawyer after all, certified with a now-pointless piece of paper.  _ Killer _ has never once described the woman. Until now, she supposed. Val had indeed racked up quite the body count in her travels. The only reason she was not as infamous as Pickman at this point, surely, was because she did nothing special with the bodies. Neither panache nor decorum. Just… murder. Valentia stared at the half empty bottle of Bobrov's Best in front of her. MacCready was softly snoring on the bed behind her, and she could smell the smoke of a dying cigarette. She walked to him tentatively and put out the cigarette. Val stared at him. He's a murderer too, she contemplated. Of course, he killed for his son like any good parent would, but she wondered if there was anything more to it. The thought turned introspection, which she ignored with more moonshine. Val stepped out of the room and began walking down the stairs of the Hotel Rexford. No one paid her much mind; she stopped in Goodneighbor often. Hancock is a good man, and Goodneighbor is a good city despite its reputation. Reminded Val heavily of Las Vegas in a way.

 

   Truth be told, Valentia did not know what she was planning to do at two-thirty in the morning. The coming winter nipped at her cheeks and she was thankful for the layers of flannel, leather, and denim. She tipped her Stetson down a bit. While walking, she found herself wondering why Pickman did what he did. There were many sick serial killers pre-war that were famous for doing things to their victims other than the normal murder. But painting? That's certainly a creative idea, albeit a fucking weird one. Val thumbed at the knife as she thought. She walked through the exit of the settlement absentmindedly, paying more attention to the way the neon bounced off the blade in her hand than her actual leaving. Soon, she lost track of herself. There was a vague memory of leaving Goodneighbor and walking in the cold, but when Val came back, she was looking down the scope of her rifle. In the sights were raiders. Quickly and quietly, she slung the rifle onto her back. Val pinched the bridge of her nose and found herself missing her old therapist. The dissociation started when Nate enlisted, but it had never been as bad as it started to become post-war. Now, with no real way to cope, Val often found herself losing time. A creak of wood sounded off behind her.

 

   Quick on the draw, Valentia turned around and pointed her revolver at the raider attempting to sneak up on her. He froze. Something of a curiosity peaked in her head as she thumbed her new knife. "Don't move a muscle." Her voice was hushed, but commanding. She missed being able to enrapture a courtroom, but intimidating an enemy comes close to that euphoria. Val stood up fully and lead the raider into an alley. She felt Pickman's blade in her hands and thrusted downwards into the raider's thigh. He went to scream, but Val put a gloved hand over his mouth. Blood poured out of the wound. The raider struggled and nearly shoved the Vault Dweller off of him, but she slashed at his neck. It wasn't deep enough to kill yet, just as she intended, but he still grasped at his neck in horror. Another plunge, this time into the man's belly. Val twisted the knife and briefly debated gutting him, but thought otherwise (because she didn't want to ruin her clothes; a penny she threw into a well). Finally, she dug the knife into his right eye. He went limp below her, and the knife slid out. Blood covered her hands, and she stared at the blank wall in front of her.

 

   Val Reyna woke up in the Hotel Rexford next to MacCready. The mercenary beside her stirred awake with a mumbled "Mornin' beautiful." He stretched not unlike a cat, and sat up. Val didn't answer, so he peered over at her and couldn't help but make a disgusted sound. Her hands were covered in dried blood.

 

"I lost track of time last night. I don't know what I did."

 

"You probably just killed some raiders or super mutants. That dried blood is really gross, Val."

 

   MacCready handed her a bandana he found some time ago. He watched as she dipped it in a cup of moonshine and started wiping down her arms. After cleaning up, she ran a hand through her deep red hair and sighed. MacCready had issues as well, so he knew how and when to tread on these sorts of things, he just wasn't familiar with this. A few words Val had thrown out to try and explain it made little sense to him.  _ It's like going on autopilot _ she had once said. Mac, unfortunately, didn't know what autopilot was.  _ Like when you give up control of your own body. I know I did something. My body did it, but my brain didn't _ . That had made more sense to him. He remembers sitting in a room, watching Duncan cry for almost an hour one time. It was dark at noon. So he understood.

 

"Well, whatever I did last night, I feel rested," Val paused, "Which I guess is worrying considering I woke up with my hands covered in blood."

 

   MacCready had already gotten up to put his duster on, and Val was doing the same with her jacket. She furrowed her brow, but her memories came up frustratingly blank. Until she felt something at her belt.  _ Killer _ was the word that came into her mind like a storm at sea. When she looked down, she saw the blade covered in blood, and an image in her mind of a blank wall being painted on. No, she didn't find solace in her attempts at painting, but something deep within her was satisfied with the experimentation. Just like in her relationships, she joked to herself, she tried something and decided it wasn't for her. The thought of anyone finding solace in using such a wicked medium for art left a stone in Val's stomach and she wondered for a moment if she regretted not killing Pickman. Or if she would have enjoyed it. Though Valentia was hungry for breakfast, she decided this self-served food for thought simply shouldn't be on the menu. As her and MacCready exited their room, she couldn't help but think herself six feet deep. Nothing special, just… murder.

**Author's Note:**

> Tried a different writing style.


End file.
